Temple of the Demon Lord of Wishes-Chapter 67: The Underdog’s Rise

As the days passed, Ivaim’s victories in the town arena became the talk of the town.

Each match he fought seemed to draw larger, rowdier crowds, eager to witness his odd fighting style and miraculous comebacks.

His name rippled through conversations at the market, the taverns, and even in the quieter corners of the village square.

They called him "The Underdog," a title born not just from his knack for defeating stronger opponents, but from the sheer audacity he showed in every fight. No matter the size, skill, or reputation of his challengers, Ivaim found a way to turn the tables.

...

The market was alive with activity, the air filled with the scent of freshly baked bread and the tang of spices.

Merchants shouted over one another, boasting of their wares, while townsfolk haggled for the best deals. Among the chatter, Ivaim’s name was impossible to miss.

"Did you see his fight yesterday?" a man asked as he handed a sack of potatoes to the shopkeeper. His sleeves were rolled up, revealing arms marked by years of fieldwork.

The shopkeeper, an older man with a frayed cap, squinted.

"You mean Marcus? The one with the hammer?"

"That’s the one," the man replied, his voice rising with excitement.

"Big as an ox, but that Underdog made him look like he was swinging at shadows. Dodged every blow, then dropped him with a single strike from that baton of his."

"A baton?" A nearby woman, balancing a basket of apples on her hip, leaned into the conversation. "Against Marcus’ gigantic hammer? That’s madness."

"Madness that works," the man said with a grin.

...

In a simple household kitchen, a boy with dirt-smudged cheeks tugged on his mother’s sleeve, his wooden sword clutched tightly in his hand.

"Ma, please, can I go to the arena tomorrow? The Underdog is fighting again!"

The mother, her face softened by a fond smile, adjusted her shawl.

"And what will you do if he doesn’t win, hmm? Cry all the way home?"

"He will win!" the boy said, puffing out his chest.

...

The tavern was noisy and warm, its air thick with the smell of ale and roasted meat. Shadows danced on the wooden walls as the fire crackled in the hearth.

Ivaim’s name had become a favorite topic among the patrons.

"I’m telling you," a burly man said, slamming his mug on the table, "he doesn’t fight—he plays those foolish fighters, making them look like drunkards stumbling around."

A woman with a knowing smile took a sip of her drink.

"And don’t forget that tongue of his. Had Kellan so riled up, I thought he’d burst a blood vessel before the fight even started."

Another man leaned in, his voice low. "You think it’s skill or just dumb luck?"

The burly man raised his mug, smirking. "Does it matter? Luck’s as good a weapon as any."

"Luck runs out," the woman said, but there was a glint of admiration in her eyes. "Let’s see how long his holds."

At a corner table, an old fisherman chuckled, stroking his beard.

"I saw him fight the axeman last week. Never thought I’d live to see someone disarm a fighter like that with a baton. A baton! Mark my words, that boy’s going places."

...

The arena grounds were quiet now, save for the workers sweeping away the debris from the stands. The scent of trampled grass and spilled beer lingered in the cool evening air.

"You hear what they’re calling him?" one worker asked, leaning on his broom.

"The Underdog," his companion replied with a grin. "Doesn’t feel right, though. Underdog’s supposed to be the one who barely scrapes by. He’s dominating out there."

A third worker, lugging a broken shield over his shoulder, joined in.

"Eight wins now, isn’t it?"

"Nine," corrected the first, brushing a pile of sand into his pan. "And he hasn’t even broken a sweat."

The second worker chuckled. "Maybe he’s saving it all up for the big fights. Either way, I wouldn’t bet against him."

...

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Despite the growing fame, Ivaim seemed unfazed. After each fight, he gave the crowd his signature playful bow, his grin as wide as ever, before disappearing into the streets.

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People waved and called out to him as he passed, but he kept his pace steady, his hands tucked into his pockets.

He greeted a few with a nod but didn’t linger, his eyes scanning the horizon as if already thinking about the next challenge.

At the butcher’s stall, a customer leaned in close, his voice hushed. "Think he’s got what it takes to go all the way?"

The butcher, a burly man with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, shrugged as he wiped his hands on his bloodied apron.

"Hard to say. Every fight’s a gamble. But if anyone’s got the knack for defying the odds, it’s probably him."

Across the square, a little girl perched on a fountain’s edge watched Ivaim pass. She clutched a scrap of parchment, her attempt at drawing the fighter.

"Is that him?" she whispered to her father.

The man, adjusting the brim of his hat, nodded. "That’s him, all right."

The girl beamed. "He’s my favorite."

Her father laughed, patting her on the head.

"You and the rest of the town."

...

The mayor’s office was a modest room, lined with shelves filled with thick ledgers and dusty records.

A faded map of the region hung behind the desk, its corners curling with age. Sunlight poured through the tall windows, catching motes of dust that floated lazily in the air.

Mayor Halvin leaned back in his creaky chair, his fingers steepled in thought.

His thinning hair glistened with sweat, and the small clock on his desk ticked louder with each passing second.

Around him, his advisors sat in a half-circle, their faces marked by a mix of skepticism and curiosity.

"So," Halvin began, his voice steady but hesitant, "we need to decide. Do we send this ’Underdog’ to the regionals, or do we pick someone else? Thoughts?"

A woman in a sharp navy coat crossed her arms.

"I agree. The regionals aren’t just about winning—they’re about showing we’re serious competitors. Sending someone like him might make us look... foolish."

Halvin frowned.

"Foolish? He’s won nine fights in a row. Against some of the best we’ve got, no less. That’s not luck; it’s talent."